


if love's a fight then i shall die with my heart on the trigger

by mackdizzy (orphan_account), prioriteas



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Electrocution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Weirdmageddon, Post-Weirdmageddon-torture, Stan Worries About His Brother: The Fic, Torture, basically whats on the tin of a post weirdmageddon fic yknow, dead bill cipher do not eat yknow, however its POST-torture so like. just the aftereffects none of the gruesome shit, lots of angst here boys!, still loving that thats a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mackdizzy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/prioriteas/pseuds/prioriteas
Summary: they say before you start a war //you better know what you're fighting forA retrospective look on the events of Weirdmageddon under a different light.or;Stan Worries About His Brother: The Fic
Relationships: DO NOT TAG INCEST OR STANCEST OR I S2G., Dipper Pines & Ford Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines, NO STANCEST - Relationship, no incest - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66





	if love's a fight then i shall die with my heart on the trigger

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!! Sorry I've been absent for so long. Chapter 2 of Didn't Flap Hard Enough is just Not coming out right now, and in my frustration, I decided I had to write SOMETHING, and fell back on an idea I think about NONSTOP nowadays.
> 
> BASED on the AU where Ford gives Stan journal 3 instead of journal 1 thirty years ago, but can really take place in any scenario where the Stan Twins made up WAY before Weirdmageddon. AKA, "this show had wonderful writing and everything that went down between the Stans before Weirdmageddon made perfect cinematic sense, but I'm still very pissed at it and would like to fix it all right now, thanks". In some ways, everything goes down a lot smoother, and it's all a lot happier. In other ways....hm!
> 
> BIG BIG BIG thanks to Alex, Elias, KT, and Zaza for being my roleplay test-runs, and from the parts I lifted from our work, and to everyone else for their continued support! 
> 
> [THERE IS NO INCEST//SHIPPING IN THIS FIC. PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT TAG STANCEST.]]
> 
> [Title and Desc. from The Cab's Angel With A Shotgun]

Stanley Pines could pretty safely say he’d never been more worried in his entire life.

He, in the course of his lifetime, had had plenty of things to be worried about. Getting kicked out of the house at age seventeen. The boarded up windows outside his brother’s house. The _portal_ in his brother’s basement. The book— _God,_ the book—and all it said, and all it said in the _blacklight._ The day he’d been arrested, what Dipper had and would think, and the nights since then, fiery, tense, fragile.

Ford, Stan realized, was sort of at the center of everything he _really_ worried about, and the fucking _apocalypse_ was no outlier.

Kind of the biggest addition to the list so far, really.

Ford was missing and Wendy was missing. Wendy was missing and Soos was missing. Soos was missing and the _kids_ were missing and the _kids_ _were missing and_ ** _Ford was missing_** and he stared at the news whenever it was on, and he paced back and forth looking for clues, and he his stomach _churned_ when he thought of that _fucker,_ of his _palace._ He knew Ford was a born survivor, and so was that Wendy, and the kids’ spirits were strong, and Soos was…..Soos, so he had hope for them, surviving out there. But he couldn’t help but worry, most of that time _,_ of whether the eyebats had gotten to them or if Bill had, separately, and what he might be doing to them. What he might’ve been doing to the _kids._

What he might’ve been doing to Ford.

“Alright everyone, daily meeting.”

It had been six days since this _Weirdmageddon_ thing started, and four since he’d taken charge of what was left of the town. It felt almost natural, but scary and new and rushed and hasty at the same time, and he hadn’t wanted this, and he wasn’t ready. But someone had to stay alive to reverse this, as soon as he could think of how. As soon as he could get his family back. 

“How long until the food runs out?”

Stan had stopped placing voices to names. Maybe that was awful of him, but he’d lost prerogative sometime along the way. Still, a voice to answer to was a voice to answer to, and he pressed a hand to his temple to feign off the migraine before giving an answer. An honest one, because that was the way he worked.

“About three days, counting today. Maybe four.”

Various cries of dismay went up around the room; _I knew it_ and _Go figure_ and _You can’t be serious_ and _There’s no way_ and the like. 

“We’ll—”

“What will we do when it’s gone?”

He didn’t know. He _didn’t know._ And he was _sure_ it was showing on his face, but all he could do was grit his teeth and barrel through it. “We’ll go out and find more. We’ll find _something._ ”

“If we go out, the eye-bats will get us!”

“Well then, I’ll go out.”

This caused a gasp to ripple over the room, and pretty uniform cries of dismay followed. He marveled at this fact, the fact that he was _valued._ Once upon a time, or maybe in another universe, he would’ve _relished_ in it.

Now, it just scared him shitless.

“Fine. Then we’ll all go together. Better than starvin’ to death, if you ask me.” Stan had been starving before. He never, _ever_ intended to do it again. The worse way to go, if you asked him. He doubted anyone out there could drum up anything worse. Well, maybe. It was possible that if they went out, Bill Cipher could.

That made him feel ill just thinking about it, so he dismissed it.

An air of silence went over the room; reluctant acceptance. This would _normally_ be the point where he offered some sort of upbeat pep talk, something to revive the energy in the room into just _living_ one more day, while he tried to think of a longer-term solution. But today, the words fell dry on his lips, his mind was blank. Today, the room could be damned; he was going to be honest. “Honestly, guys? I--”

That was as far as he got, because suddenly, the front door _rattled._ Everyone in the room stiffened. His right hand went to the bat he kept by the chair, his left into his jacket pocket where his brass knuckles lay. The others in the room gathered various weapons, both proper and makeshift, with the same fervor. The air in the room was one of bravery, but of reluctance, of admittance, and he summed it up pretty perfectly in his next words. “If we go down, we go down together. Three, two, one--”

A ferocious battle cry echoed through the air as the front door opened. Everyone raised their weapons, probably hoping to at least _appear_ intimidating in the face of--

_“Grunkle Stan!”_

**_“Kids!”_ **

Mabel was on top of him first, then Dipper. He let them jump on him, _happily,_ wrapping both arms around them. A stronger pressure afterwards indicated Soos was there, and even Wendy joined in. The kids were here. The kids were here, and they looked a little roughed up, but mostly _alright._ Mostly _okay._ “Kids!” He couldn’t help but repeat as everyone got to their feet. “I thought you were goners for sure!” And then, since he couldn’t _help_ but ask _(please, no, don’t let it be true, please don’t let it have happened, not to them--)_ , “Did Bill…?”

“No, nononononononono.” Mabel was quick to reassure. “It’s…” Her cheeks reddened. “It’s a long story, but we’re okay. Bill didn’t get us.”

“I’ve mostly been out with Wendy and Soos.” Dipper chimed in, scratching the back of his neck. “We hid in the mall for a while, then we went and got Mabel.” The idea of Mabel being anywhere _alone_ churned his gut, but she was smiling, and she looked _okay._ Naturally, _naturally_ Wendy would keep everyone safe; strong girl, he counted on himself to give her, like, a 60% raise after this. This was shaping up to be, he was deciding despite it all, the best day of his life. “Come on, kids. There’s food in the kitchen, I set aside grilled cheeses for if ya’ came back--” And this earned grumbles from various members of the room, who had since put their weapons back and returned to generally moping, but he just flipped them off in response. “And lemonade, and coffee for---”

Oh no.

His gut _twisted_ and suddenly he turned and looked from Dipper to Wendy to Soos to Mabel, wide-eyed, unable to ask it without sounding _horrible._ They all knew. They all knew because Wendy started playing with her hair, and Soos cleared his throat a few times, Dipper refused to meet his eyes (just like he always did), and Mabel started tugging on the sleeves of her sweater (just like he _always did)._ “Um.” It was Dipper who spoke up, eventually. “Bill got Ford. He--he turned him into gold, and took him back to the Fearamid. I was there, I should’ve…” He trailed off for a moment before taking a deep breath and continuing. “We were gonna go get him, but--we thought we should come home, first, see if everything was still okay. We should’ve--”

“No, no, I’m...glad you came back first.” He sounded airy, and distant. Maybe he just needed to sit down. He sank into an armchair and covered his mouth, shutting his eyes tight. In flashes, he saw the past nights. The way Ford curled into him and shook apart in his arms for hours after seeing the blood in the untouched study. The _screams_ that came from Ford’s lips in his sleep in the morning hours. The six cups of coffee--in a _row_ \--that he drank the first morning back.

Stan felt like he was going to be sick. 

He was only shaken from that thought by a _very_ energetic voice. 

“Before Ford was captured, he told me he knows Bill’s weakness!” 

It was _Dipper’s_ voice. _Dipper_ was standing on a crate, hands clenched at his sides, face set in a determined line. He could barely believe his ears. _Dipper,_ delivering a pep talk way, _way_ better than _any_ of the ones he’d managed to give in the past four days. "If we can go rescue him--and, and, everyone else---we can maybe stop him, and save the town, and, um. The world." A little shaky, but--confident. He liked that. He liked Dipper’s spunk. "He's--probably in the---Bill built, like, a pyramid palace thing. That's where he's taking everyone, right? Good place to start. So---we just charge in there, and....fight back! Fight back and get Great-Uncle-Ford and--um..." 

"But we're only safe inside the shack." Wendy pitched in, with raised eyebrow, and Stan was not one to go back on a self-promised word, but he was _immediately_ double-thinking that raise.. "I mean, I'm all for storming the gates like a madwoman, but we'll get killed out there. It's not like we have any ideas to bring the shack to the Fearamid. 

As it turns out, though, someone did have an idea about that. 

(The power of newly-remembered gay love can do that to you, sometimes). 

So, just a few hours later, they had a nearly-assembled half-shack-half-robot…thing on their hands. Dipper was practically leading the charge. Making lists, formulating battle plans, bustling between everyone like a busy bee, and Mabel was currently knitting a flag, sure to incorporate everyone in the shack in one way or another. It was something she excelled at, and it was enough to raise the spirits as much as it possibly could.

He, on the other hand, spent most of it in an armchair in the corner, letting the kids and McGucket lead the charge. He would have to loved to be right there up front, making what food he could, helping Dipper do the heavy lifting, offering Mabel support and holding her yarn, but...his mind kept looping to Ford’s broken figure and the way twelve trembling fingers gripped his shirt, out of sight of everyone else. _Bill, Bill, Bill._ Ford sobbed while Dipper and Mabel slept upstairs. Bill Bill Bill was out there, and Bill Bill Bill _had his brother._ The thought rooted him seated, even six hours later, when the chair was doing a significant amount of sliding as the shacktron (he thinks that’s what they were calling it) made its way across the desolate landscape.

"Okay, rescue team!" Mabel chirped, excited, They'd been over the plan. Half of them would stay behind to pilot the shack and keep Bill and his demons at bay, the other half would drop out, bust into the Fearamid, get Ford, and pray whatever he had said earlier about Bill's weakness might still hold true. Save the world. Simple!

Kind of. 

Stan, of course, was going with the group inside (and he was going to be the _first_ to Ford, the first to _see_ him, to _hold_ him, to _apologize_ for staying _holed up_ this _whole time_ ), and even he couldn’t help the way his legs trembled in the rescue pods. The way everything felt like a blur, navigating the expanses of the Fearamid when (right on cue) Bill Cipher himself came charging out to meet their fighting-half. Very punchable, in person. That’s a detour Stan would’ve liked to take, risks be damned, but...there wasn’t time. Damnnit.

It all felt like a _blur,_ really. The part where they got inside and managed to undo _some_ of the atrocities, and get the town sectioned off; most of them would go outside to fight Bill and his crew, a few would stay behind, just in case. These people included Ford, who as promised had been turned to gold, not stone like the others, but…

_Fuck._

He hadn’t known what he’d been expecting, but _fuck._

The kids were to Ford first. Somehow, he couldn’t even have managed that. Mabel and Dipper were almost on _top_ of him, babbling excitedly and definitely crying a little, and part of him wanted to _scream,_ to tell them to get off him, because couldn’t they _see?_ Ford looked like a _wreck._ He was trembling and sweating and the edges of his clothes looked-- _burnt,_ somehow, and there was this erratic look in his eyes, even as he smiled and chatted with the children. It was erratic even as he looked over to him and tilted his head, though for a moment it turned into a stifling, vicious warning: _Don’t ask questions._ And that made him almost sick, but he just nodded, grimacing and hoping whatever _weakness_ Ford had on tap was going to be enough. 

"We haven't much time. Listen up, everyone. I think I have a way to defeat Bill once and for all. A prophecy." A _prophecy_ didn’t sound very believable, but he was going to trust Ford on this one. Leave it to him, to be jumping right back into the action, acquiring a can of spray paint, doodling on the floor like the world’s most dangerous game of hopscotch. Like nothing had _even happened._

"Many years ago I found ten symbols in a cave.” Ford instructed as they gathered into a circle. He took his brother’s hand on one side, and it was _burning_ hot with what could only be fever, and shaking almost uncontrollably, but Ford didn’t seem phased. “Some I recognized then, some I only recognize now. The native people of Gravity Falls prophesied that these symbols could create a force strong enough to vanquish Bill. With Bill defeated, his weirdness would be reversed and the town could be saved. I saw the flag--outside." He pointed out the window. "I realized the symbols are---they're you. They're the town. We are destiny." "Hold hands, everyone. This is a mystical human energy circuit. Hold hands and _focus_."

And so Stan stood very still and focused on--whatever. The kids, the strength they gave him. His love for the town, and for the world it built, and his desire for everything to be alright. Ford’s hand in his own, which he was rubbing with the back of his thumb for any sort of comfort he could offer it. How much he wanted to fucking _destroy_ that triangle. Maybe that was what did it, because by the grace of some higher power, it worked.

Smoke filled the room as thunder rumbled outside, and it started to rain--then it started to snow--then sun broke the clouds. The pinnacle of _Weirdness_ , being broken through by the town's mystical energy. Next, complete and utter silence, which filled the room and everyone's sealed shut mouths. It was a moment of pure anticipation. And then:

Everything reversed.

Looking out the window, he spotted the clouds part as a ray of sun shone in, like a cheesy kids show. And then, just like the last of the weirdness bubbles in the room outside, the tension evaporated, and _cries_ of joy went up around the room. The kids ran over from across the circle, and he hugged both of them, and then _Ford_ hugged both of them, and then they ran off to hug others, and then _more_ people were hugging Ford, congratulating Ford, complimenting Ford, telling him he saved the world, that he was a hero, and it pissed him off. 

It pissed him off because why the hell could _nobody see what was happening?_

“Ford.” He muttered, finally yanking him off to the side (too hard, too hard, that was too hard). “Tell me what happened.”

“I’m alright, Stanley.” Ford’s gaze was averted before he’d even started talking, and _no._ No, that was not happening, not today.

“Ford, I did not fight for thirty years to bring you back and struggle _every night since then_ with _myself_ and my own guilt to have you _hide_ from me!” He covered his mouth with his hands and averted his _own_ eyes, then. The kids had been building robots, leading charges, and he’d been sitting back, scared. “I was so scared.” He mumbled, and then he said it again, only this time, he had to shut his eyes tight to keep out the tears (it didn’t work very well). “I was so fuckin’ scared, Sixer, I didn’t know what he was--doin’ to you.”

Ford met his eyes curiously, and a little scared, too, like he didn’t know what to make of it. “I’m okay, swear.” Stan muttered. “I just wanna--promise me you’re okay.” Slowly, _slowly,_ he could feel the rest of the worry, what made this day _awful,_ dissipate, as safety and relief flooded in.

Then, Ford passed out.

It happened in a swift matter of _seconds._ One minute, he was insisting he was fine. Then, his eyes were glazing over, and Stan saw it, and Stan panicked, placing his hand on his back so when he fell forward, it was onto him. And yes, Ford was running one _hell_ of a fever, and it stopped his breath in his throat. First, he was almost glad for the active flaring of fever on his skin; that was Stan’s indication that he was still _alive._ But it didn’t take long for worry to set in, fiery, fierce worry, as they were surrounded by people, suddenly, asking him questions. “I don’t know.” He muttered, as scared--maybe more--as he was earlier that day. “I don’t know what happened.”

He got everyone home. Wendy drove them back, Dipper and Mabel crammed together in the front seat (very illegal, but apparently it wasn’t the craziest car adventure they’d had these past days, and it's not like he would've cared much in the first place) while he cradled Ford in the back, whispered stupid things like _it’s gonna be okay_ and _I'm here now_ to him, stupid, useless things. Ford didn’t move an inch.

He set him on the couch, first, forcing himself to prioritize the kids; that, truthfully, wasn't hard in the slightest, but he did have to force down the waves of guilt for it. He got them real food, real, _homemade_ grilled cheeses, and sent them upstairs with bottled water, a ton of candy (because why not), and the diner’s promise of all you can eat pancakes tomorrow and ordered them to _sleep_ as soon as they could, because goddamn it, they’d deserved it. Then, he gave some extra candy to Waddles, because he'd deserved it too. Then, because he'd changed his mind and he couldn’t let himself rest without it, he followed them upstairs and tucked them in himself, flipping the light off once he was sure they were both asleep (it had only taken seconds).

Then, onto Ford. His first step was to move him off the couch and into his room, which he did so by skipping most steps and carrying him in bridal style. Only then did panic set in, _real_ panic, and his next moves were hasty and rampant and sort of careless, but he was running on pure instinct, whatever he could do to make it through. He tucked the blankets around his shoulders and ran to get a cold washcloth for his forehead, then put another bottle of water on the bedside table for him. He checked his fever about 500 times and considered taking him to the hospital about 500 more, but he didn't even know what was _wrong,_ what they would even _say._

It was only then that he realized that Ford might be _injured,_ and if it was bad, he probably _should_ take him to the hospital. It felt alien, out-of-body, a necessity that never should've been, but he worked to get his sweater off, and what he saw sickened him. Somehow, Bill's defeat felt a lot less cathartic in the moment when he saw the viscous burn scars across Ford's wrists and neck, the red lightning-bolt fractals making their way down his arms and chest. He stopped dead and almost dragged Ford to the car then and there, but then he realized that even _he_ would have trouble explaining his way out of that one in a way that wouldn't get people seriously involved, and he begrudgingly moved to get the first aid kit himself, praying it would be enough.

He took care of the burn scars as best he could, though even his experience treating them on himself felt insignificant here, where Ford was concerned. He ended up checking his fever way too many more times, just to reassure himself he was doing it, and though he wished for Ford to wake up the the entire time, he didn't, and only after he was positive his disinfecting and bandaging couldn't be done any more and that Ford _probably_ \--most likely--wasn't going to die on him did he relax, pulling the blankets back up and tucking them in around Ford's shoulders.

Then he pulled the chair from the desk next to his bed and took one of Ford’s hands in his own and _held it,_ held it through the night, held it to his forehead and cried against it, because he hadn't done enough, he'd never done enough, he _couldn't_ have done enough, and he held it until the morning sun rose and then some, until _finally,_ Ford stirred.

It was with a soft groan and a wince of pain as he shifted, and Stan was by his side immediately, scooching the chair closer and moving the washcloth to feel his forehead. Not as hot, thankfully, but still warmer than he would’ve liked. Ford let him do this with little more than a soft noise of protest.

"Hey, morning." He muttered, his voice infinitely gentle in a way that was uncharacteristic for him. And then, back to normal; "Drink this, you need it." _No coffee,_ he wanted to tack on at the end, but he forced himself to take things slow. Ford couldn't be feeling very good right now.

Ford didn't speak, but he nodded and agreed, which relieved Stan, but his lack of usual fuss worried him, just a little. “You feelin' alright?” He asked with exceeding softness, and Ford nodded wearily. 

“You sure?”

Ford shook his head.

Stan could tell it might’ve been about to get worse, so he moved until their knees were touching, taking both of Ford’s hands in his own. “Hey, ‘s okay. I’m right here, now.” _Now._ The word dried up his throat and flooded him with guilt, but he powered through it. “Talk to me, Sixer.”

That was probably the wrong nickname to use, but he realized it too late. "I--" Ford started, but then, Ford didn't talk. Ford cried.

It was a little jarring, a little unexpected, and absolutely _heartbreaking,_ the sobs Ford spent the next minutes letting out, pressing their foreheads together, his arms wrapped around himself. He said words, sometimes, and some of them sent _chills_ down his spine, some of them admitted to truths he would’ve liked to go the rest of his life without hearing, but he let Ford get it out for close to an hour. Everything. Everything he’d seen yesterday and everything he’d felt, physically and emotionally; he let it come out in the wash, come out as Ford clung tight to his shoulders and shook. Fifty-two minutes later, once a considerable amount of silence had settled over them, he said the first thing he’d said since it started, aside from the occasional _I know_ or _It’s okay_ or _He can’t hurt you anymore._

“You good?” It felt weak, it felt insincere, but he had never had much else, in the way of those things.

“Mmmhm.” Ford mumbled, wiping a tear from the side of his eye. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He paused, slightly, tilting his head and folding his hands on his lap. “I've gotta change your bandages, stay there."

It might've been overkill, but he didn't care. He didn't care because he needed to be doing _something,_ or the guilt would eat him alive. He considered the hospital again, but dismissed it for all the same reasons as last time--Ford hated hospitals, besides. 

The next hour was a quiet one, filled with little noise as replaced everything. Something about it felt heavier, now, probably something about Ford being awake, about not being truly alone. “We should do my ankles too. My legs.” Ford mumbled, staring at the back wall, but Stan shook his head.

“Later. ‘M not overwhelming you with that all at once." He hadn't done any of it, in the first place. That was just another thing, he realized, that he _should've_ realized. "Here.” He’d crossed the room to grab a fresh sweater, blue, this time, and handed it over, and Ford pulled it over his head gratefully. Then, he sat on the bed next to him, and the two of them stared at the back wall _together_ for a bit, before he spoke, slowly.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What?”

“I should’ve-- _fuck._ Been faster, tried harder, come _sooner--”_

“Stanley--”

“I just--I’m so, so _tired_ of leaving you out to dry with this shit, Stanford, I don’t think I can take any more of it.”

“Hence, why we defeated Bill. So you don’t have to anymore.”

“No, that’s not what I--what about _you,_ Poindexter?”

“I’ll be fine.”

This answer was very dismissive, and Stan sighed, finding Ford’s hand and holding it tight. Somewhere during the time he was doctoring him up, the fever and the shaking seemed to have passed, and that got him to let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. “ _We’ll_ be fine, Stanley. Both of us.”

“You gotta let me help, Sixer.”

“I will. Promise.”

And then Stan turned and buried his head in Ford’s shoulder, taking a choked breath. “I’m--”

“If you say _sorry,_ I’m not coming with you to all you can eat pancakes.”

That got him to laugh, against all odds. “You still wanna go get those?”

“Stanley, they’re _pancakes._ ” Ford chuckled too, a softer sound. “Don’t be sorry. I’m--I’m relieved you’re here. Against all odds, we’re together. And--and I knew you were coming for me. I don’t think I would’ve been able to…if I hadn’t known.”

“....Really?”

“Of course. I knew you were coming. You’re my hero, Stanley. Always will be.”

The thought was soft, and tender, so naturally Ford would only let it linger in the air for a moment before swinging his legs over the bed. “Careful--” Stan started, but Ford seemed to be on his feet just fine, and paused with a little smile. “Listen.”

There was clear vocalization coming from upstairs. Mabel, no doubt, singing outside the bedroom window. “Eh, that’s Mabel.”

“Yes, well, it’s a beautiful day.”

“Mmmmhm, all thanks to you, Poindexter.” Ford cracked a smile--a small one, but a smile. 

“Well then, it better not be _you_ that holds us back from it.” Ford chuckled, practically knocking him over as he ran out the door to meet the kids. Always part of the action.

They would be alright, he decided, flipping off the light.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Once again, my apologies for being absent for so long! If you all enjoyed, I'd really appreciate a comment, you KNOW they fuel my writing and keep me going through those tough blocks. Thank you each and every one!


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